


Incomplete Knowledge

by coolbreezemage



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Ethical Dilemmas, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 07:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20542493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coolbreezemage/pseuds/coolbreezemage
Summary: There, on a shelf under Solon's worktable, sits a notebook stained with substances Linhardt would rather not think about. He doesn’t think any of the knights notice him take it, and he slips out the door before giving them a chance to.He stares at the cover for a long while and then tucks it away in one of his bags without opening it. There will be time to read it later, he tells himself, when he's in possession of the rest of his reference materials.It isn't until they return to Garreg Mach that the nightmares start.





	Incomplete Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mertiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/gifts).

Linhardt stands in the ruins of Remire Village, staring blankly at the flames and ash and fallen bodies, and it takes every scrap of strength he's got merely to stay on his feet. 

There's blood on his hands and on his face and _ in his mouth _ and he doesn't know how it got there but he knows it's not his own. The sword in his hands isn't his either; he'd picked it up off the ground when the Death Knight's soldiers had brushed off his magic attacks like so many inconvenient flies. Bernadetta had taken care of most of them before they reached him, but one must have evaded her in order to ambush him as he stumbled out of that terrible, terrible room...

“Is that everyone?” The Professor’s voice, carrying above the crackling of flames and the moans of the wounded. He should be doing something about that, but he'd exhausted his healing magic keeping Dorothea alive after a sniper’s arrow caught her in the shoulder. His fingers won't respond anyway; he can't even drop the sword though it continues to drip blood and rust onto his hands. 

“No. Linhardt is not being here. He was looking for survivors in the buildings.”

“_Damn_. Is someone with him? There might be traps.”

“I see him. Over there!”

“Linhardt! Lin!"

Someone is calling his name, he thinks. It doesn't matter. All of it is just senseless noise in his ears. His throat and limbs remain immovable, as if they belong to someone else, and as the others reach him the world fades into a chaotic blur. 

***

He comes back to himself slowly. He's sitting on a low wall at the Black Eagles’ camp just outside of the village, staring into a blazing fire. A clean fire, made only of wood and kindling, free of the stench of flesh and blood and magic. 

The sword is gone, and somebody has cleaned the blood from his skin. He doesn't remember who. It's still stained and crusted into his clothing, but he thinks he can bear that as long as he doesn't think about it. He's good at not thinking about things. There's something warm draped over his shoulders. The Professor's cloak, he realizes. He turns to find the Professor sitting next to him. 

"You were shivering," Byleth says in explanation. 

Oh. So he was. “Thank you,” he whispers, relieved to find his voice again. 

"What did you see?" the Professor asks. 

Linhardt swallows. “I went into one of the houses near where the Death Knight vanished. I thought I could figure out how he'd done it…”

There he'd stumbled into what could only have been Solon's research laboratory. He'd seen the burned and mutilated bodies, dead faces contorted in agony. Seen the jars upon jars of blood stacked against the wall…

His insides twist horribly, and he barely manages to lurch a few paces away before emptying his stomach into the scorched grass. 

There's a hand on his shoulder when he's done, still retching though there's nothing left to come up. It's a touch somehow more grounding than the dirt beneath his knees, reminding him that there still exists a world that isn't made of pain and blood and cruelty and fire. A world of lessons and naps, friends and books. A world that seems so far away now. 

He needs it; his head is still swimming when the Professor presses a cloth into his hand so he can clean himself up. 

“Forgive me,” Byleth says. “I shouldn't have asked you so soon.”

“You needed to know.” Linhardt tries to rise, but the world goes fuzzy before his eyes and only the Professor’s arms under his guiding him to a seat keep him from toppling to the ground. He screws his eyes shut and presses his fingers into the cool stone, struggling to cling to consciousness in a way he's rarely tried to before. 

"I'm sorry, Professor. I don't think I should try to stand up just yet,” he says when he can spare breath to speak. 

“Then rest. You're safe here.”

Yes. He's safe, as are his friends and the handful of villagers they'd managed to rescue, but so many more are dead, so many who absent Solon’s influence would never have turned weapons against their fellows. 

What was it all _ for? _Were they attempting to transfer Crests between bodies? Horror surges through him yet again. Horror, and curiosity. 

"How can they do this? How can they justify this? It's monstrous.” He's babbling, he knows it, but he can't seem to stop until all the words are out of him. “I would never- I know people say I go too far sometimes in the pursuit of knowledge, but I could _ never_..."

"I know,” Byleth says, calmly and firmly. “I know, Linhardt. I trust you. You're nothing like them.”

Linhardt takes a deep, ragged breath. The Professor's trust… That's something he can cling to while he struggles to find his footing in this world that is suddenly far darker and bloodier than he knew. 

He should apologize to Lysithea when he sees her next. If her twin Crests came from suffering like he saw today, then it's no wonder she responded to his eager curiosity with such hostility. If only he had _ known_…

He's _ still _ curious, and that's the worst part. Part of him still aches to know what bloodstained knowledge Solon pried from those tortured bodies. Would it be unethical to make use of that research for the greater good, knowing how it was obtained? He ponders that question as he sits listening to Petra curse the monsters in two languages while Caspar curses himself for his failure to capture them in time. Here and there he hears Dorothea’s voice raised in song as she comforts the orphaned children. Edelgard and Hubert, the Professor tells him, left some time ago and are probably still deep in a strategy session with the Knights of Seiros. Bernadetta and Flayn are off with the convoy to take stock of their supplies and the state of their weapons, and Jeralt is patrolling their camp. Linhardt wishes he could make himself useful, but he knows he'll faint if he so much as tries to stand again, so he sits by the Professor’s side listening to the sounds of their camp and waits for his head to stop spinning. 

Ferdinand prepares tea for them all, muttering all the while about the inadequacy of the supplies. Usually somebody would have told him to shut up by now, but complaining about tea is better than thinking about what they've all just seen. He serves Byleth first, and then pushes a cup into Linhardt's hand. 

“I must offer you my deepest thanks, Linhardt,” he says as he does so. “I do not believe I would have survived this battle without your aid.”

That's right, he'd taken an enemy mage’s spell straight to the chest and had very nearly fallen from his mount before Linhardt could reach across the burning hedges to mend the damage. It seems so long ago now. 

“Oh. You're welcome, I suppose.”

Ferdinand smiles. “You have had a difficult time, I can see that. The tea should help.”

Lin's grateful for it, not that he would admit it and give Ferdinand another reason to preen. He sips the tea slowly. The sweet warmth goes a long way towards settling his stomach. Now that the roar of battle has faded, he's feeling rather tired. He's not quite sure what he's doing when he rests his head on the Professor’s shoulder, but Byleth allows it without a word. 

He could sleep here, he thinks. Perhaps he should. He closes his eyes, lets the world drift away. That, at least, he still knows how to do. 

***

“Aww, Lin, you're so cute like that!” 

Linhardt cracks an eye open and peers at the delighted face staring down at him. 

“Dorothea, I was sleeping,” he protests, aiming for “peevish” and probably landing more on “whining”. He pulls himself upright and barely avoids blushing at the Professor’s smile. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Uh, for the nap.”

“You're still adorable,” Dorothea insists. 

“That was not my intent.” Arguing with her is worlds better than thinking back to what happened today. 

“Enough,” the Professor tells them, far too soon. “We must be on our way back.”

Linhardt helps Bernadetta and Jeralt load the wagons with the villagers’ few remaining possessions. The survivors - only a fraction of the population - will return with them to Garreg Mach. Remire is no longer fit for any residents save bandits and rats. Linhardt does not believe in ghosts, but he is glad to leave that haunted place even so. 

But before they depart, there is something he must do. He steels himself for the sight that awaits him and leads the Knights of Seiros to the harmless-looking building that once had been a carpenter’s workshop and then became a torture chamber worthy of the deepest hells. The knights busy themselves with the bodies, chanting prayers and arranging burial shrouds. Linhardt stands in the doorway and tries his hardest not to faint. He should walk away now that his job is done, but he can't help but wonder… And then he sees it. There, on a shelf under the worktable, sits a notebook stained with substances Linhardt would rather not think about. He doesn’t think any of the knights notice him take it, and he slips out the door before giving them a chance to. 

He stares at the cover for a long while and then tucks it away in one of his bags without opening it. There will be time to read it later, he tells himself, when he's in possession of the rest of his reference materials. 

It isn't until they return to Garreg Mach that the nightmares start. 

***

Sometimes, in his dreams, he stumbles on Solon's men at their gruesome work and can do nothing to stop them, only watch as their victims suffer and die in agony. Sometimes they capture him and take knives to his flesh, trying to tear his Crest from his body. And sometimes he's the one conducting the experiments, torturing the people of Remire, recording his findings in the bloodstained book as the villagers’ screams ring in his uncaring ears. Those are the worst by far. He wakes from those sweating and sick and certain he's going to find the dark smears still there on his hands. 

He hasn't opened the book yet. Thoughts of it haunt his every moment, awake or asleep, but every time he takes it from the cabinet he's buried it in and sets it on his desk to read, he finds his fingers freeze over the cover and his stomach turns and he hides it away again unread. 

Linhardt decides the best way to avoid the dreams is simply to stop sleeping at night. It isn't as if he's not accustomed to staying awake most of the night already, studying or reading or simply watching the stars. The others would probably think it amusing if they knew. It would give Catherine another reason to call him a cat. 

He thinks he's hiding it well. He can still nap just fine during the day, thank goodness. He'd probably go mad if denied that respite. But it's still not nearly enough, and each day he grows more weary. And then he falls asleep - without meaning to - in the middle of a class on magic that he really was finding quite interesting. Dorothea pinches him; he jolts awake, knocking his quill off the table and just barely avoiding spilling ink over Caspar's sheet of doodles. He doesn't think he was asleep for long, but there's a blank page in his notes and the Professor is looking at him with an expression more concerned than disappointed. To his relief, Byleth is kind enough not to comment on the matter, and class continues as usual without a pause. He thinks he's escaped notice until Dorothea grabs his arm as they're coming out into the courtyard and drags him to a quiet hallway. 

“Linhardt. I’m worried about you,” she says once they're alone. “Please, go talk to Manuela.”

He yanks his sleeve out of her grasp. “To what purpose?” he returns, probably a good deal sharper than he should. “A few hours of drugged sleep isn't going to do me any good.”

Her face falls. He's hurt her, but there's nothing he can do about it now. “Is that what you expect to get?” she asks, softly enough to shame him. “If you won’t tell anyone what’s got you so troubled...”

“It's the _ book_,” he admits, partly to shut her up and partly because he can't bear the secret anymore. 

“What book?”

“Solon’s research notes. From Remire.”

She recoils in shock. “_What_? Why do you have that?” She didn't know. He shouldn’t have told her. “Did you steal it from the knights?”

“No! It was just _ there _ and I couldn’t leave it…” The knights had not come into possession of it yet, therefore it was not their property to be stolen. 

“Hmm.” She considers him, and for the first time he can remember, he falters under her gaze. “No, you didn’t steal it, but you still don’t feel good about it. Oh, Lin. I can only imagine what terrible things you've seen in there.” He's never felt so exposed before, except under the Professor’s piercing eye. 

“That's not the problem. I haven't been able to open it yet.”

Dorothea frowns. “I always thought you'd gobble up any research you could get your hands on.” So did he. She winces. “It was that horrible, then? I don't know, I didn't see.”

“I've thought about burning it,” he admits, “but I couldn't bear to be responsible for the loss of that knowledge. I suppose I could give it to Hanneman, but…” Somehow the thought isn't appealing. 

“You want to be the one to discover it for yourself. And if you handed it over, you'd have to explain where you got it.” She sighs. “Why don’t you just read it, Lin?”

He can’t answer that.

“Because you're worried what it will say about you if you do.” She shakes her head. “I don't blame you, I want nothing to do with anything those people were up to.”

He’s compelled to defend himself. “The knowledge… The knowledge could be critical to understanding Crests. But the _ blood_…” It makes him dizzy just thinking about it. 

“I don't know. I've never cared much about Crests. But you do. And you're going to have to make a decision. Personally, I think it would be a terrible waste to throw it away. If you could use that knowledge to stop anything like that happening again… Wouldn't that be worth it?”

It would. So why can't he open the damned thing?

“You should talk to the Professor about it.”

His eyes widen. “I couldn't.” The Professor likes him, the Professor _ trusts _ him, he’d rather give up his own Crest than give Byleth reason to turn away from him.

Dorothea reads his fear in his eyes. “I think you should. I'm no counselor, but I've performed in enough operas to know where these feelings can lead.”

He peers at her. “And what do those characters do to resolve their troubles?”

She shrugs helplessly. “Die, usually.”

“That isn't exactly helpful, Dorothea.”

“That's why I think you should talk to the Professor. He'll know what to do.”

She's right. He sighs. “I will. And I'm sorry for snapping at you.”

Dorothea smiles. “Go talk to the Professor, Lin. You'll feel better.”

***

He pauses outside the Professor’s door. He's working on something, probably lessons for the next week. Perhaps he doesn't want to be disturbed. He's dithering, he realizes, and forces himself to reach out and knock. “Professor?”

“Hm? Linhardt?” Byleth raises his head. “If this is about today, it's all right. Just make sure you get some rest.”

If only that was all it was. “Thank you. But I have something I need to talk with you about. Do you have time?”

Byleth sets his papers aside. “Of course. What is it?”

He swallows. “At Remire, I… took something from the ruins.” Linhardt steps forward, holds out the book. 

Cautiously, Byleth takes it, weighs it in his hand. There's no reason for him to ask what it is; he knows. After a long moment, he asks, “Why did you take it?”

“I thought it might help us find out what the Flame Emperor wants,” Linhardt says. But the moment the Professor looks at him he knows that's not completely true. “And… I wanted to know what Solon had discovered about Crests.” He looks away. “It was probably wrong of me. But if the knowledge is there, I thought, somebody ought to make use of it.” 

He expects scolding, he expects anger, he expects those dark eyes to turn cold with disappointment. What happens is none of those things. 

“What did you learn?” the Professor asks.

Somehow he finds he can still speak. “Nothing yet. Every time I go to open it I feel like I'm going to faint again.”

Byleth looks thoughtful. “Maybe it's cursed?”

Lin shakes his head. “There is no recorded proof of such curses existing. To tell the truth, I think it's all in my head.”

“Or your heart?” Byleth says, tilting his head in that odd way of his. 

“What?”

“No matter how curious you are, you don't want to be a party to their atrocities in any way. That's admirable.”

The praise feels good. But he has not come here to be praised. 

“It doesn't matter, does it? What's done is done. We just have to learn all we can from it.” Even as he says it, he knows it to be true. And he knows what he must do. 

With the Professor at his side, Linhardt at last opens the book and reads. It is at once not as horrific as he expected and more; cold clinical words mask unimaginable pain and cruelty. Several times he comes close to throwing it into the fire in disgust, but Byleth’s steady presence beside him gives him strength enough to read on through page after page of failed experiments, each one more gruesome than the last. Each death as coldly described as if the villagers of Remire had been so many cattle. Every single one of Solon's test subjects had perished before showing signs of Crest power. 

Linhardt would be the first to say that a negative result can often say as much as a positive, but this… This tells him almost nothing, except that the Flame Emperor’s mages believe Crests can be physically implanted into a host. Which has been a theory in the field for quite a while, though before now nobody has gone so far as to test it. The ledgers of the dead make it all too clear why. 

He relates his scant findings to the Professor, then sets the bloody book on the desk and sighs. It looks so small now, drained of the power it once held over him. 

A few moments of silence, and then Byleth asks, “Do you regret reading it?”

“No,” Linhardt says, without needing to think. “I needed to know. It's horrible, but there's nothing we can do for the dead.” He's never really understood the reverence given to the dead, but now is not the time for that discussion. Now at least they know what their enemies want. It remains to be seen if they can stop them from accomplishing that goal. 

He sits on the bed, and he's suddenly very, very tired. It couldn't hurt to just rest his head for a moment… Yes, that feels very good.

The last thing he sees before closing his eyes is Byleth smiling at him. “Rest. I'll get us some tea.”

He's asleep before the Professor returns, and this time, there are no more nightmares. 


End file.
